


The Taste of Hell On Your Skin

by RiatheMai



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Hell Sam, Season 7!Sam, Top Dean, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 17:31:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4109188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiatheMai/pseuds/RiatheMai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hell did this, twisted what they could have been to each other into something cruel, turned kindness into torment. But, even on those nights when Hell is too near, and maybe Sam is not too sure he can trust where he is and who he's with, Dean is there to give him whatever he needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Taste of Hell On Your Skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kailene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kailene/gifts), [LoveThemWinchesters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveThemWinchesters/gifts).



> I wrote this as a gift to my most awesome betas and friends, Kailene and LoveThemWinchesters. Not sure who was more surprised that I'd written a Wincest, me or them. They insisted I post it. Love you guys!

 

**The Taste of Hell on Your Skin**

 

  

~~S*U*P*E*R*N*A*T*U*R*A*L~~

  

It's like this sometimes. Either Hell is too close or Lucifer is too loud; and nothing I do seems to help. He doesn't make a sound, just twists his body beneath mine, his hands clutching at my flesh, his long fingers finding the spaces between my muscles and bones and digging in deep. It should hurt, but I find I need it too, his desperate, clawing grasp pulling me close and holding me tight.

I'm not the only one who'll have bruises come tomorrow morning. My hands can't hold him tight enough, sliding over every inch of him I can reach, tracing every contour. There's so little of him that's soft, all lean muscle and long, hard bones. 

The cords of his neck draw my mouth as he strains, his head tipped back so far I can hear his breath choke off and grow thin. I bite the sharp ridge of his jaw, hard; then soothe it. His skin is salty against my tongue. I want him to cry out. I want to hear him. This silence is maddening. It's like he's not even here, like he's hiding, drawn back and away, locked inside himself where I can't reach him. Not fully. 

I bite him again, my teeth closing around his flesh, careful not to draw blood, but only just, as my hands roam; one to his hair to fist in the sweat-damp strands and the other downward, across the jut of his perfect hipbones to hook around his thigh. 

He bends his leg with little coaxing and our bodies slot together like pieces of a puzzle. He drives his hips upward, seeking, pleading, demanding, all without a sound. His face twists like he's in pain, his eyes squeezed close, his lips slightly parted, and his teeth clenched. 

I want to coax him to look at me, but I know from past experience it's better this way. Better for him anyway. He can't always trust what he sees when he's like this. Maybe it's better for me, too. I can't bear to look in his eyes and see in the doubt staring back at me that it's not me he's seeing but someone else who wears my face. 

Instead, I kiss his jaw, his neck, his face, anywhere and everywhere I can reach, as I hike his leg up higher, marveling at the flexibility in those long, lean legs as he digs his heel into the small of my back. 

I feel his hand snake between us, and his long fingers close around my cock. I have to bury my face in his neck to keep from crying out. I'm so hard and his grip is so perfect as he positions me at the entrance to his body. 

I know what he's going to do, and I tell myself to stop him before... 

His other leg wraps around my waist and his other hand grabs my ass; and with one violent thrust, I'm buried to the root. 

We both cry out at the pain/pleasure of it; and the rough, guttural sound of his voice is so welcome after that terrible silence. I'd wonder at just how fucked up that makes me, but really... 

I'm screwing my brother. You can't get much more fucked up than that. 

His body is a ruthless vise around me. It's killing me to hold so still as he adjusts to the invasion. Suddenly, he turns his head and I seize his lips. The kiss is fierce, rough, and tinged with the salt of tears. 

His? Mine? Both? 

I don't even want to know. If I think about it too much I get angry, and that is something I can't bring to our bed. Anger only brings Hell and there is too much of that here as it is. Hell did this, twisted what we could have been to each other into something cruel, turned kindness into torment. 

"It's okay, Dean."

For a second the words make no sense, but then I feel his body open. His touch gentles, the harsh clutch of fingers becomes a soothing slide across my back. 

"Please, Dean. Please move. God, please!" 

He paints those words across my face; and when he opens his eyes, there is only Sam staring back at me through a lust-blown ring of hazel. 

"Sammy," I breathe. 

And, then I'm crushing our lips together; and he's crushing our bodies together, his strong arms circling around my back as he arches and strives. It's a violence of a different kind. I push up onto my hands. I hate to leave his mouth, but I have no traction at that angle. His hands return to my ass and he pulls as I thrust, setting a rhythm that neither of us can maintain for long. 

All the while, his eyes stay locked on mine; and, _My God!_ the sounds he makes... Moans and pants and a building litany of, "Dean. Dean! DEAN!" 

He throws his head back as his muscles clamp down around my cock, and then he's coming, a cry tearing out of his throat as thick ropes of searing heat spread between our bodies. 

Holy fuck! I never even touched him! That's the last thought I have. My balls pull up and my vision whites out in an explosion of pleasure so strong my voice chokes off on his name. 

"You okay?" he asks what feels like hours later. 

We're still joined, the slick puddle between our bodies slowly growing cold. His heart is still pounding and so is mine. It's only been a minute or two. When I lift up enough to see his face, there are tears tracing down his cheeks. I thumb them away. 

"Sorry," he says. 

I don't ask him what he's apologizing for. His list would be long, and none of it is his fault. I don't ask him if he's okay, either. I already know what he'll say. 

I withdraw and he hisses sharply. I know I hurt him, but he won't accept my apology any more than I will his. The best I can do is snag my discarded shirt from the floor and wipe the mess from our skin.

I toss it back onto the floor then pull him until he's tucked in close to my side. The fine tremors fade from his body and his head grows heavy on my chest as sleep claims him. 

I lie awake for a while and just listen to him breathe.

 

~~fini~~


End file.
